Stuffed: Chapter 1 (Patreon)

My plan was to get through college focussing entirely on my studies—but plans change

My college raised tuition by a whopping thirty-percent for my final year, and my dwindling student loan simply didn’t cover what I owed. So I went out with my tail between my legs and applied for jobs. 

I’d never worked a job before. I always just thought that I could survive off of loans until I was qualified to work as an engineer, so I would never have to flip burgers or scrub floors. I was so, so close… but I didn’t quite make it to that finish line. Apparently colleges are just allowed to change their rates whenever the hell they want. 

Oh well, a job wouldn’t kill me… but it did mean extending my final year into the summer. Instead of finishing my final ten classes in the two usual terms, I had to lower my workload to three classes per term, and finishing the final four courses over the summer term, which most students took off. There was just no way I could work a full-time job and also make it to all five of my classes each week. 

I applied at fifteen different places—mostly at the mall across the road from my college. I was only brought in for three interviews, and I was only offered one job—and I can’t say that it was the job that I was expecting to get. 

I should point out to you that I wasn’t a ‘big’ guy. I never played sports. I had never grown to be what women might call ‘normal’ height. In fact, I was a bit shorter than the average woman… And with tuition costs going up each year, I couldn’t exactly afford to stuff my face with good food. Living off of ramen noodles, I was pretty skinny. 

So it was a real shock when the mall offered me that position as a ‘security officer’. “Why me?” I couldn’t help but ask in my interview. 

“We’ve tried hiring big, intimidating guys before,” the mall’s manager said to me. “And when they get physical with shoplifters, it actually turns into a legal issue. We don’t want you trying to detain anyone. We don’t want you getting physical in any way, shape, or form. If you see someone stealing or getting violent or abusive—your job is to call the police and to alert the perpetrator that the police are on their way—that’s it. Don’t try to be a hero. We don’t want heroes. You’re qualified to do that, right?” 

It almost felt like a bit of an insult. He thought I was a good candidate because I looked like I completely lacked the ability to be a hero…

Oh well—a job is a job.

I started on day shifts, working alongside another short, skinny guy named Mel. He was timid and quiet, and whenever he actually did see someone stealing from a shop, he would turn away and pretend like he saw nothing, because he was absolutely terrified of the idea of confrontation. I had a feeling the mall manager wanted me to do the same thing. Losing a couple hundred dollars to some shoplifter was better than risking a six-figure lawsuit.

So I guess you could say that it was a pretty easy job. I mean—my job was essentially to wander around the mall all day. The mall essentially just wanted me to be present, hoping that my existence would be enough to deter most shoplifters. If there was ever an incident, I would call the police (not 911, but a number that I’d been given specifically for mall-related incidents), and then I would have to sign a police report; it didn’t happen a lot. 

My day was usually like this: a class in the morning, an eight-hour shift at the mall, and then a couple hours of studying before bed. I saved the serious studying for weekends. I was busy—too busy for college parties. And when you aren’t going to college parties, you aren’t dating college girls… and you definitely aren’t getting laid.

I had really been hoping that my virginity would be behind me by the time I was finished college. Each year, I would tell myself, ‘This is the year.’ And I probably had a few opportunities at college parties… before I stopped going to them. I connected with a few different girls, and I came close… but my nervousness always stopped me. I was always convinced that I would make a move and the girls would be horrified. I was always convinced that I was misreading those ‘connections’. I guess you could say that I had low self-esteem because I was short and skinny and living on student loans. No girl wants that… right? So when girls batted their lashes at me, I just assumed there was some mistake—maybe my mind playing tricks on me.

And now, with no time for socializing, my virginity would have to wait. 

Getting my degree was my primary objective—and that meant spending my free time as a mall security officer. 

And the job really wasn’t so bad… until summertime came around. Instead of three classes, I had four to finish, and the summer term was shorter than the others, which meant more class time each week. I simply did not have time to work for eight hours during the day—

So I was moved to evenings and nights. There were a few ‘shops’ that stayed open late in that mall. Toni’s Bar and Grill was open until midnight most nights. Sunset Lash Studio was usually open until about 10:00 PM. Electric Ink, the tattoo shop, stayed open until they finished their last tattoo of the evening—and sometimes that meant them staying open until 1:00 AM. 

And once those shops finally closed, I stayed on duty. I had to remain in that mall, alone, pacing the quiet hallways in the off-chance some idiot broke in to steal in the dead of the night. 

The pay for working nights was $5 per hour better—and that went a long way, as you can imagine… but I quickly started dreading my shifts like I hadn’t before…

Because they were so lonely.

When I was working days, Mel was there; we chatted throughout the day. And I had made friends with some of the store employees: Duke, who worked at Sport Mart, was always wanting to meet up for lunch. Stanley, who worked at Brian’s Herbals, was always cracking jokes that would have me chuckling throughout the day.

But at night, they were all gone. The mall was quiet. The bar and grill had its own separate exit, and they would close the mall entrance after nine. The only people coming and going through the nail salon were older women—and the workers in the nail salon were all older Korean women who barely spoke any English. 

And the girls in the tattoo shop… they were a different breed. They may as well have been old Korean ladies who didn’t speak English, because their world was entirely different than anything that I knew. 

Two girls ran that shop; I didn’t know their names. I didn’t even really know how old they were. They could have been thirty-five… or nineteen. They wore heavy, dark makeup. One girl had her hair bleached, the other had black hair. They were both covered in tattoos. I heard them talking a few times in the food court, using slang that I was not even kind of familiar with… myself being born in the mid 2000’s, it sounded like they were using slang from the 90s—but they really didn’t look that old. 

Sometimes they would stay late—as late as 3 or 4 in the morning, tattooing each other. I looked in to see what they were tattooing on each other sometimes; it was never anything deep or meaningful. One time the dark-haired girl was letting the blonde tattoo a hotdog smoking a blunt on her chest. They were both laughing… and drinking and smoking cigarettes.

It was technically my job to tell them not to drink or smoke in the building, but I was also told specifically not to create any unnecessary drama, so I just let the girls do what they wanted. It’s not like they were hurting each other. 

The blonde girl had a skateboard and would use her breaks to skateboard around the parking lot. Sometimes the brunette girl would bring a camera in and they would use their free time to take photos of each other: lewd photos. They sold calendars with pictures of themselves, in lingerie and topless. They tried to sell me one for cheap, laughing violently when I blushed and declined the offer. The black-haired girl flipped it open to a picture of her topless, covering her crotch with her fingers. “You can put it up on the wall in your security office!” she said. “Wouldn’t that be tubular?” 

Tubular? What does that even mean? 

We had rules in the mall, of course—for instance: no public nudity. But the girls didn’t seem to care. They had been told to put up curtains around clients when tattooing sensitive areas—but they never did. Their clients never seemed to care. I would peer in and see some fake-tit turbo-bimbo with her giant knockers out, getting a dagger tattooed between her balloon-boobs. One time I saw the dark-haired girl tattooing flames around some other chick’s pussy, and another time I saw the blonde tattooing something on a dude’s cock; I didn’t look closely enough to see what it was.

One time, I tried to politely say, “If there’s ever any nudity in here, just remember to use the curtains.” I motioned towards some mobile curtain racks that were against one wall. The girls looked at the curtains and then burst out laughing. 

I had to go in their shop one evening after a crackhead wandered in and was demanding the girls tattoo his face—before he started vomiting on the floor. I just stood there, being present, while waiting for the cops. During that wait, I looked over at the framed degrees they had on their walls—at least I thought that they were degrees until I looked closer. Then, I saw that they had framed letter from their high-school principals. ‘Effective immediately, you are expelled from Sir John A MacDonald High School.’ I guess the girls thought that was pretty funny…

I just couldn’t relate to them in any way. I was the valedictorian at my high-school. I didn’t know anybody who wasn’t either attending college or already working in some prestigious field requiring at least one STEM degree. 

But these girls…

One of the framed letters was an art school rejection.

Rejected from art school? Why would they advertise that at a tattoo shop? And still… clients were always coming and going. I was even standing outside when one of the clients handed the black-haired girl a wad of cash. “What’s this for?” she asked.

“Tip—for the panther,” he said, tapping the panther on his arm. “It healed so well.” 

He handed her nearly three hundred dollars, and her reaction was simply: “Aw, thanks. You’re so sweet.” And she stuffed the money into her bra, sandwiched between black lace and tattooed titties. 

I will admit that I was a bit jealous… she never spent more than a couple hours on a tattoo, and she usually did three or four in a day. Their rates were on the wall: $150 per hour. That didn’t include tips. Hell—these girls were making more than I was probably going to be making for my first five years as an engineer… 

It hurt my brain (and my ego) to think that some high-school dropout delinquent girls could spend most of their time fucking around and still be so financially successful…